The Rise and Fall of the Soldier's House
by Jashi
Summary: Tradition. The laws of your ancestry that were passed down to your parents, to you, and eventually to your children. But what they wanted for us...we didn't want. Our history is noble, but traditions are meant to be broken. That break begins with us."
1. Chapter I: Twins of the Soldier's House

THE RISE AND FALL OF THE SOLDIER'S HOUSE  
  
By Jashi Troasien  
  
N O T E: I do not own LotR. This is a story about a very large, military- oriented family during the end of the Third Age (the Return of the King) and the Fourth Age.  
  
Chapter One:  
  
_Through darkness and shadow _

_One must prevail _

_Though the sea is cold and bloodless _

_One ship must sail _

_And in the darkness _

_Where the shadows lie _

_One must stand up_

_ And hear his people's cries. _

_When the wind calls of murder _

_And the sky cries in shame _

_One must go onward _

_In his people's name._  
  
-Excerpt from "A Soldier's Vow ," Anonymous. _Prose and Poetry of the Third Age,_ archived in Minas Tirith the year 3036.  
  
Ocendade plucked the volume from the shelf carefully. She climbed back down the short ladder, and handed it over to the stocky man waiting below.  
  
"Ah, thank you milady," said the man with a smile.  
  
"You are quite welcome," said Ocendade in reply. The man turned on his heel and went to sit down at the large study at the back of the room; Ocendade went to a tall desk at the very head of the gargantuan room. Taking a large feather quill, she dipped in an ink bottle and scribbled hurriedly on a long scroll of parchment.  
  
"_The History of Osgiliath_," she muttered as she wrote. It was the first book of the day today. Through an open window near the desk she could see the sun slowly climbing to its place in the sky.  
  
Hothien, head librarian of the Minas Tirith Library and Archives, had commanded her to always make a list of the books she was requested to find for people...or whatever kind of being decided to drop by the History and Architecture section.  
  
This immense tower loomed high in the sky on the sixth tier of Minas Tirith. There were several sections. First section was the "index" floor of sorts, where great scrolls were kept that logged every scroll or book in the tower. The second floor was Botany and Animals; the third floor was the smallest, it contained fictional tales; the fourth floor was Ocendade's floor, History and Architecture; the fifth floor was the Arts, and the sixth floor was everything that didn't really have a spot. The sixth floor had also a very large study.  
  
Each floor was expansive and contained rows and rows of books, and along a wall would be a place for scrolls. At the back would be a small study with a few chairs and desks for transcribing and reading. At the head of the room, near the door, would be a tall desk where the librarian and her assistants would sit, if she had any.  
  
Hothien was head librarian, and ran the place with strictness and great organization. Ocendade monitored the History and Architecture floor. A man named Delos ran the Botany and Animals; Gamil watched over Arts; Ydea looked over fiction; Neyu was on the sixth floor with the obscurities and the study. Down in the basement were the records of genealogy. It was all a very smooth business.  
  
Someone appeared at the door, and Ocendade glanced to the entryway. It was Hothien. She stood up immediately.  
  
"My lady Hothien," Ocendade said quietly, "what may I do to serve you?"  
  
"Really, Ocendade," the older woman retorted briskly, going over to Ocendade's desk and snatching up the log-scroll, "there is no need for such formalities, as I have told you morning after morning for the past two years."  
  
"Sorry, ma'am. Old habits are hard to break."  
  
Hothien glanced over the list, clucking softly. "History's been busier than usual."  
  
Ocendade nodded. "With all this war going on...well, you'll see that most of the books are war histories."  
  
The head librarian sighed. "One can only hope it's over soon. The Dark Lands seem to grow more menacing each night. Even the sun seems a blessing these days.  
  
The other woman was quiet at this. Hothien gave her back the scroll. "That's all. Everything seems to be fine here. Is Manôsâi coming in today?"  
  
"I would imagine so. He was asleep when I left this morning," Ocendade smiled gently in the memory of her twin that morning, sprawled out on the floor in a pile of cloaks and blankets, snoring softly, innocently.  
  
Manôsâi was Ocendade's twin brother. They lived together in a very small house on the second tier of Minas Tirith. Their older brother, Aetheorean, was a captain in the Guard of the Citadel. He refused to live with them. He was a proud, nearly arrogant sort.  
  
In fact, their entire family was. A family of soldiers, each man a soldier, each woman a soldier's wife. This was why Manôsâi and Ocendade lived together out of need of a house. Manôsâi did not, simply could not work for pay. He was an artist, and illustrated books next to Ocendade every day in the library as she worked. Manôsâi was very capable with his hands as he illustrated words and images around text: sometimes vines with vibrant, evergreen tendrils curling around words, beautiful red flowers blooming in the corners of the pages, or knights of Gondor, broad and tall as towers in their glimmering, luminescent armor of the White tree, or the fairylike, delicate-looking Elves of the far forests and glens. Every once in a while a scribe would pay him a little to illustrate a book for his lord. But this was rare, especially in times like these when books were probably the last thing on any sane lord's mind.  
  
They were black sheep, as their father, Careocyn, called them, oddities that every family had. But this still did not save them from becoming a joke inside the rings of the soldier's house. The uncles, especially Addrynnyn, could be positively vile about the two, especially Manôsâi. Manôsâi was, as Careocyn's son, destined to be a soldier, a guard of the Citadel, like his brother Aetheorean. And Ocendade was, as Careocyn's daughter, meant to be married to a soldier, preferably one of high rank, stature, and great favor with the Steward. The twins were neither soldier nor soldier's wife, and for this they were, though it was unspoken and never intentional by the other members, the lonely outcasts of the house of the soldiers.  
  
The soldier's house, as it was called around Minas Tirith, called the House of Edain Dagorais, House of Man's Horns in the Elven tongue, itself was a large house on the fourth tier, where all the members of the house gathered on Sunsday of every week when they were able. The house was lived in by Careocyn, their father, and their brother Aetheorean, along with one of Careocyn's brothers, Ederin, who had no wife or children.  
  
Careocyn himself was one of five brothers: Ederin, Laernil, Addrynnyn, Thaliondal, and then himself. All of them were sergeants, colonels, or captains of the Citadel. Careocyn had been discharged honorably from his post after a nasty Orc blade permanently disfigured his leg. So he set to live in the old Edain Dagorais with Ederin, teaching and taking care of the place. But there was no home there for Manôsâi and Ocendade, and they did not live there with Aetheorean and Careocyn.  
  
Hothien cleared her throat, shaking Ocendade out of her reverie. "I have a task for you, Ocendade."  
  
Ocendade cocked her head quizzically. "What task might this be?"  
  
"The Steward wishes for these books to be brought to him," she said, handing Ocendade a scrap of parchment. Ocendade looked it over. "When does he wish to have them?"  
  
"By noon, if at all possible, Ocendade. It would be even better if you could somehow get it there beforehand."  
  
Ocendade nodded. "Yes, my lady. Is that all that is required of me?"  
  
"That is all, Ocendade." She turned on her heel and left to go observe the other levels of the library. The young librarian glanced at the fragment of paper clutched in her hand. "_Prose and Poetry of the Third Age_, _Minas Ithil and Its Falling_, and _The History of Osgiliath_," she murmured softly, racking her mind as to where those books might lie in her section. _Poetry and Prose of the Third Age_ would reside in Gamil's section; she could pick it up last.  
  
It was true that Ocendade had read most of the books in the History and Architecture section. She'd read them constantly, even as a young girl. At fifteen, when she practically begged her father—and then the librarian—to be able to go into the service of books, she had found herself a home. Two years later, she was now head slave driver, as Manôsâi jokingly called it, of the section. She had always favored architecture over history, and had by now read every architecture book in the section.  
  
"It is no wonder no man has married you," her father had muttered grudgingly when she had happily informed him of this a year ago. He had thought she wasn't listening.  
  
"I would rather marry books," Ocendade had mumbled in a weak reply.  
  
Ocendade now traversed up and down between each shelf of quivering, bound knowledge, looking for Minas Isil and Its Falling. She could retrieve _The History of Osgiliath_ from the man reading it at the back of the floor. Ocendade found the "M" bookcase and peered at the dusty volumes. After a few tepid minutes of gazing at the books, she finally found her object of desire wedged between _Minas Ithil, a History_ and _Minas Ithil: Architecture_. She remembered the latter of those two fondly. Pulling out _Minas Ithil and Its Falling_, she proceeded to the back of the floor. She came upon the man who was reading _The History of_ _Osgiliath_ as one would read the holy records of the gods. A smile came upon her face. She could not simply wrench this book away from him for the Steward. The Steward would wait. Though she realized she probably would be late and what complications it might have to her occupation, she only shook her head at the thought, going back to her desk and writing in her small, wrinkled script:  
  
_Minas Ithil and Its Falling_ --- the Steward Denethor of Gondor

_The History of Osgiliath_ --- the Steward Denethor of Gondor  
  
Gamil would make his own marks upon his own list later for the last book. For now, Ocendade settled back in her chair, waiting for Manôsâi to come in and illustrate a book with vivacious color, watching the sun rise to its highest, most glorious peak of noon.


	2. Chapter II: Concerning Ocendade and the ...

THE RISE AND FALL OF THE SOLDIER'S HOUSE  
  
By Jashi Troasien  
  
N O T E: Yay! Second chapter! pets little Ocendade I don't own LotR. Please read and review.  
  
CHAPTER TWO  
  
_And in the quiet of the winsome wind  
  
When days have passed  
  
And nights are dim  
  
The graves are deep  
  
When wars are over  
  
And shadows sleep  
  
Though you are tired  
  
And you are weak,  
  
Look at the sky.  
  
The stars will speak,  
  
And they will say,  
  
"You must still help those  
  
Who have lost their way."_  
  
-Excerpt from "A Soldier's Vow," Anonymous. _Poetry and Prose of the Third Age_, archived in Minas Tirith in the year 3036

"Explain your reason for being late," the guttural voice of Gondor's Steward seemed to make the air frosty with his shiveringly cold tones. He sat a table with another man, whom Ocendade realized was his son Boromir. He was fair and broad-shouldered, as her cousin Legessa had giggled in her ears often.  
  
"Such a handsome man," she'd twitter, wringing her hands at her mental image, "How I wish he'd take a look at this woman of the soldier's house..."  
  
"Answer!" The Steward's harsh voice jerked her out of her thoughts, making her step back in distressed surprise.  
  
"My lord Steward..." she said, bowing, and then bowed her head at Boromir in clumsy, attempted courtesy, "I apologize profusely for being late."  
  
"You are nearly two hours late," he practically hissed at the librarian, "I demand an answer for this impudence."  
  
Ocendade honestly tried to steel herself. To make herself look like a member of Edain Dagorais: unafraid, unfaltering. It failed miserably. She could barely stop her voice from quavering as she stared at a spot on the floor.  
  
"I...er...Another man was reading one of the books you requested, my lord...and I would not take it from him until he was finished," she mumbled.  
  
"You would not take it from him," the Steward said in disbelief, "even though the Steward of Gondor blatantly requested it?"  
  
Ocendade swallowed bile that had begun to rise up her throat.  
  
"Yes," she said.  
  
Said Denethor of Gondor, "I will not tolerate this impudence from a simple librarian! The next time I require a text, I want it on time. Do you hear me?"  
  
Ocendade nodded, trying not to look as humiliated as she felt. She caught a glance of sympathy from Boromir, who looked as though he wished to say something. He did not.  
  
"...Give me your name, woman, so I can report it to the Head Librarian next time I have the luck to meet her," said the Steward.  
  
"Ocendade, daughter of Careocyn," she quavered. She had hoped he would not take her name.  
  
"Careocyn?" said Boromir, eyes narrowing, "of the soldier's house? Of Edain Dagorais?"  
  
Ocendade felt her heart slipping down to somewhere in the neighborhood of her intestines. "Yes."  
  
Denethor, Steward of Gondor, laughed. He laughed loudly, so that his voice rang through the hall, banging on windows and the high stone columns. She saw Boromir, heir to the Steward, visibly wince. Ocendade bowed, her face flushed red with shame, and took large strides backwards, missing the door and walking backwards into the wall. She jumped and nearly ran out of the room.  
  
"A librarian!" he howled, as Ocendade ran down the hall, "The librarian of Edain Dagorais!"  
  
Ocendade ran blindly onward, her focus on getting out of the castle as quickly as was humanly possible. Stumbling over the hem of her dress, she fell, nearly striking her head against the stone floor. The sound of quick footsteps came near. Hands grabbed her shoulders as she got up.  
  
"Milady, are you all—"  
  
"I am fine!" she cried out, her voice shaking in a mixture of both rage and shame. She wrenched away from whatever hands had helped her stand and ran towards the great doors of the castle, fleeing, scampering, retreating. The opposite of what any proper Edain Dagorais would do. She imagined what Aetheorean, would have done in her place. Perhaps he would have taken the Steward's beating out of love for his country, but he would not have shamed the soldier's house with a shaking voice or trembling hands or flying feet.  
  
As she reached the doors she banged them open, taking a last fleeting, cowardly glance behind her. She saw the face of the mysterious hands. Faramir, second son of Denethor II.  
  
Ocendade ran out into the open air.

Manôsâi sat next to his sister's desk, idly organizing tiny bottles of ink on his small table. Though he would never have admitted it, his twin's presence helped him work a little better. The bottles were painfully small, a tribute to how unlucky their financial situation was. Manôsâi had honestly tried to make money, but now he was totally reliant on Ocendade's pension, which was not scarce, but not suitable for two people to live on. Especially now with the war and the darkness rising...pay days were getting farther apart and fewer between.  
  
He restlessly waited a few more moments before unscrewing a bottle of dark green ink, and delicately dipping the tiny, thin thistles of his brush into the musky, emerald paint. Meticulously, he began a flower's stem at the corner of a page. The tendrils began to sprout on the tan parchment, winding around the page number, embracing it in its lovely hold of jade life. Directing all of his thoughts and energy to the miniscule, delicate flower before him, he soon was lost to his own world where he was a priest of art, worshipping the luscious hues upon the page as they spread and created themselves into works of exquisiteness.  
  
Manôsâi worked for nearly two hours on the flowers, which by then had turned into a garden that crept secretly up the side of the page, entangling the viewer with its mystic colors and hypnotizing blossoms, and the vines that seemed to want to reach out and curl about the reader's fingers as he held the page open.  
  
He was rudely jarred away from his secret world of art when the door to the Architecture and History section opened with a loud creak, then closed with a deafening crash. Manôsâi scarcely managed to not splatter the ink all over his work.  
  
"Ocendade?" He saw his sister, her hair windblown and mussed and her eyes wide and upset.  
  
"Oh, brother," she said, sinking down beside him at her desk.  
  
Manôsâi put down the book and his brushes, looking concerned.  
  
"I'm going to lose my job. I was late to the Steward's...he's going to speak to Hothien...I'm going to lose my job..." she repeated over again, in a dull, disbelieving voice that made Manôsâi narrow his eyes.  
  
"How late were you to the Steward's, sister?"  
  
"Nearly two hours. I let a man finish his book before bringing it to him. And then he asked me for my name, and I told him." She looked into his eyes just for a moment, and suddenly he understood her upset.  
  
It was that same look that he had when Aetheorean muttered about artists being poor and worthless, when Addrynnyn laughed so loudly the rafters seemed to shake when Careocyn had informed him Ocendade was going to be a librarian, the look of disbelief and utter shame upon Thaliondal's face when Manôsâi showed him a drawing he'd done instead of sparring. The disappointment, the let down, the feeling that they would not live up to the standards set for them before birth.  
  
"Sister..." he trailed off, not knowing what he should say. What comfort could he offer? Even as her twin, there was nothing he could say that would prove the opposite. He placed his arm around her shoulders.  
  
"Hothien won't release you. She seems to like you. I recall her saying that she's never approved much of the Steward anyway. It'll be alright, Ocendade."  
  
Ocendade nodded, looking a little better considering the moment before. "Are you sure?" she asked him, with an almost childlike innocence in her voice, knowing full well what his honest answer would be.  
  
"No."


End file.
